


The Talking Cure for Lycanthropy

by Drewyth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Hypnotism, Ivan Shouldn't Be Licensed Probably, M/M, One Shot, Therapy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 08:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18797101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/pseuds/Drewyth
Summary: Alfred F. Jones is a werewolf. He’s hurt people, but he doesn’t remember it. After waking up with bloody hands too many times, he seeks therapy from Dr. Ivan Braginsky - But Ivan is a human, so what does he know about the curse Alfred bears? And how effective is hypnotism for this kind of thing anyway? A request from @scribblesketchscoo on Instagram.





	The Talking Cure for Lycanthropy

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a request from one of my followers! It was super fun to write, and a nice little break from some of my bigger stories that require more research and stuff. I call little one-shots like this my "Potato Chip Fics." They're just something fun to munch on. My partner kept trying to get me to name this "Moon-Moon Goes to Therapy," so I guess that's the alternate title. Anyway, Ivan definitely shouldn't be licensed and it was really hard not to use his hypnotism for...purposes that would elicit an M-rating. Let me know what you think!

Dirt under his nails. He was used to seeing that. It was the first thing they taught him to look out for the day after a full moon. Dirt was nothing to freak out over. Only, this time, it was tinged with something else. Red-brown crescents flaked off on his fingertips and he knew, without touching his tongue, what they tasted like. He cringed when his stomach growled. Bad time to be thinking about a burger.

“My brother’s the one that brought me here. You met him for a sec. Matthew. My other brother—Er, stepbrother… Well, Artie was the one that…”

Alfred trailed off, scrubbing his hands absently over his jeans. Blue eyes flitted over the room. He noticed a wooden paperweight, carved in the likeness of a bear. Beside that, a table lamp cast them both in a deep orange cone of light. It made the room look even smaller, which was a feat. An impressive oak desk stood against the far wall. The files it held were organized, but not with the compulsory neatness of someone like Arthur Kirkland. It was more like someone had tidied up as an afterthought because, hell, it was the professional thing to do.

There were no other decorations, save for a framed painting of what must have been…snow? A box of tissues sat near his elbow. Also an afterthought. Their chairs were positioned incredibly close to one another. Sometimes, if Alfred fidgeted too much, their knees would bump together and, wow, that was awkward. It wasn’t what he expected one of these offices to look like but, then again, he hadn’t exactly planned to come to one either.

“It used to be pretty easy to control. I mean, not _control_ control, because, you know, I basically lose consciousness whenever a full moon hits. But, what I mean is, it was easier for other people to stop me from doing crazy shit and—Wow, I am really hungry. Are you hungry?”

Violet eyes regarded him coolly. Light refracted off a gilded nameplate. _Braginsky._ A fringe of ashy hair grazed Dr. Braginsky’s lashes, which were full and white as the winter scene mounted behind him. In fact, everything about the doctor screamed winter: From his ivory skin, to the rosy flush clinging to his ears and the tip of his nose, right down to his icy presence. His suit was grey, with light pink accents that matched his scarf. It might have seemed strange that the man wore a scarf inside but, _god_ , he kept his air conditioning cranked _all the way up_ , didn’t he? Alfred retreated deeper into his jacket. Their knees bumped together again.

“…Alright, you had lunch then. I can probably grab a Big Mac on my way home or something. But hey, that’s another thing. I woke up this morning and I was…I was _full._ ” He shuddered, swallowing something thick before he could make himself continue. “And Arthur doesn’t let me do midnight snacks anymore, so it’s not like I —I’m sorry, just—What exactly do you think makes you qualified to be talking to…someone like me? About something like… Something like this?”

A smile flickered around the edges of the doctor’s mouth. He tilted his head, patient. “Alfred, I like to believe that nine years of schooling and counseling experience—”

“Wait, where are you from?” Alfred felt his brow crease. That accent… He hadn’t noticed it before, when the doctor had greeted him. Now, harsh consonants scraped at the confines of their shared space. He could practically see the Cyrillic etched into those words.

Dr. Braginsky’s smile thinned. “New York.”

“Okay, sure, but—” Alfred caught the man’s expression and settled back in his seat. “Yeah… New York. Right. Cool.”

“Remind me where you’re from, Alfred.”

Alfred pulled his legs up under him, so they’d stay out of the way. “Shouldn’t you already know that? Like, doesn’t it say in your little file thing?”

Dr. Braginsky quirked a brow. Flat humor danced behind his eyes. “Play along, no?”

Alfred sighed, which melted into half a smile. “Sure. Okay. I grew up in this little blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town in Nebraska. Mom had a farm. Er, a ranch. Lots of animals. Matt and I helped take care of them, which really meant we tried riding the pigs and I always got us in trouble for climbing in the chicken pen. You don’t need to know all that. Uh… Yeah. Nebraska.”

“What brought you to the city?” The cadence of Dr. Braginsky’s voice could lull Alfred to sleep and jar him awake all at once. German, Alfred decided. He was definitely, probably German. Or, no. Braginsky was a…a Russian name. His granddad came to mind. An old bomber jacket that smelled like cigarettes and bourbon. Alfred wore it now. He’d mostly gotten the stench out, but the leather still carried bitter stories of “commies” and “Reds.” Alfred let go of a breath.

“You see, doc, that’s all a part of my tragic backstory. ‘Cause I… I’m so sorry, how do you say your last name?”

“Why don’t you call me Ivan.”

“Ivan. Right.” Alfred nodded, once. “Okay, so Ivan, I had a pretty quiet childhood, yeah? I played football, my brother did hockey, and everyone liked me because obviously I’m the handsome twin.”

“Mm,” Ivan hummed in the back of his throat and Alfred wondered if it ever got sore, speaking the way he did. “Go on.”

“Yeah, so I pretty much lived your standard, boring, rustic lifestyle. Went to church on Sundays, except when I managed to sleep in. Got in trouble with the cops once for having beer in the car, but they just let me and my friends off with a warning. Uh…”

“Things were quiet,” Ivan prompted.

“Quiet. Yeah.”

“Until…?”

Alfred shifted again and cursed when their knees knocked together. “Well, the uh, erm, I mean…” He clasped his hands harder and told himself they weren’t shaking. They weren’t. And he didn’t feel like he needed to vomit either, because he hadn’t _eaten_ anything and—Maybe he had eaten something, except, he didn’t remember what it _was_ so maybe it had never happened. He swallowed roughly. “The animals started…disappearing.”

“Disappearing,” Ivan repeated. He reached for a glass on the table beside him, and Alfred suddenly felt thirsty. Parched. He swallowed again.

“Yeah. Look, do you—Can I have some of that? Water?” Alfred nodded to the drink Ivan was raising to his mouth. “It’s just, I’m really thirsty, all of a sudden.”

There was a wry twist to Ivan’s lips, exposing a row of white teeth. “It’s not water.”

“It’s not… Then what is it?” Alfred’s eyes widened and he pitched himself forward in his chair. “Are you _drinking_ on the job? Dude, that is not cool. You could get fired for that. And arrested, I think.”

It took a moment for Alfred to realize that purring sound was coming from Ivan. He was laughing, deep in his chest. “Relax. It was a joke, yes? Something to ease the tension. You are nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re sweating.”

“Okay, but it’s not like I don’t have a good reason.” Alfred frowned, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You haven’t even heard my full story yet.”

“By all means.” A gloved hand swept between them, inviting. “I’m here to listen.”

“Okay… Like I was saying, the animals started, just, vanishing. First it was just a chicken. Then an old goat that was dying anyway. Then we started missing calves and, one day, Matthew’s favorite horse was gone and—Where are you going?”

Ivan made his way to the desk in the corner and stooped. Stooped _low_ because he stood well over six feet. Then, he raised a plastic bottle of water in answer. “You are still thirsty?”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” Alfred accepted the bottle when Ivan returned. The side of his pinky grazed the man’s wrist. A shiver racked his body. Ivan was as _cold_ as winter, too. “Anyway, what was I saying?”

“The animals—”

“Oh yeah. So, the animals were dying, yada yada, everyone was freaked out. Except Mom never called the cops, which I thought was weird. Because, if all your animals were just disappearing out of nowhere, wouldn’t you wanna get someone involved? She didn’t, though. But she did start fighting with Dad a lot more. I guess it didn’t help that he started drinking a bunch during this time. Anyway, one day, Dad took me out to the treehouse, and we were both way too big to be sitting in that thing. But he took me out there, and he was all, ‘Mom and I are getting a divorce. And also, guess what? You inherited some really freaky disorder from my side of the family that makes you kill shit whenever there’s a full moon.’ I mean, those weren’t his exact words, but that’s basically what happened. Should you be writing this down?”

“No need. The cameras will capture everything.”

“Wait, you’re _filming_ this?” Plastic crunched under Alfred’s grip. “Doesn’t that go against, like, confidentiality and—You know I-I saw this documentary. There were these, uh, these Russians, right?” Alfred paused. He glanced at Ivan’s face before daring to continue. “Well, so, yeah, these Russians pretended to be your average American families. Except they were actually _spies_ , and… Did you ever see…? I don’t know why that suddenly popped into my head, I just… Uh. The camera joke freaked me out, I guess. It was a joke, right?”

“I thought you might have some…we’ll say, assumptions about me.” Ivan offered another pale smile and started to stand. “Why don’t we find you a therapist you can feel more comfortable with, no?”

“No.” Alfred was half out of his seat before he realized. He hesitated, standing almost chest-to-chest with his doctor. From this close, Ivan looked as surprised as Alfred felt. He sank back down. “No, I mean, you’re fine. I already had to wait a pretty long time to get an appointment here in the first place, and I really can’t…do any more waiting.” He wrung his hands together and they still felt so _filthy_. A tremulous smile flashed on his face. “Artie calls me impatient. I say, efficient.”

“Ah. Another thing we can chat about.” Ivan’s smile shifted into something a little more cheerful. It didn’t suit his face. Alfred recoiled, as much as his chair would allow. “I hear you wanted to join the military.”

“Air Force, yeah.”

Ivan’s chair groaned when he settled back. His shoulders spanned the entire width of his seat. “What made you want to do that?”

“I love my country, duh.” Alfred settled too, and a leathery plume of scent puffed up from his jacket. “My dad served. His dad, too. And my mom’s dad. It’s just what you do in my family, you know? It’s a privilege.”

“A privilege. Yes.” Ivan’s expression was hard to read, but Alfred thought he looked—amused? He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as though he’d said anything funny. “You are clearly very dedicated.”

“Yes sir.”

“Why didn’t you enroll?”

Alfred laughed. There it was: Proof that this guy didn’t know half as much about his condition as he claimed. Alfred leaned over the arm of his chair. A smirk curled his lips. “New regulations. They don’t want me anymore. People like me. Shifters, right? And why would they? Once a month, we lose our freakin’ minds and no one has any control over us. We could attack our own allies. We might seriously hurt someone, I don’t know.” Alfred pursed his lips. His hands were fidgeting again. “And… And don’t you think that’d be pretty counter-productive? Letting someone into your ranks who’s a bigger threat to you than the bad guys you’re supposed to be fighting?”

“Of course. I just thought you would have considered all your options,” Ivan’s smile twisted into something lopsided and strange. That glint of amusement never left his gaze. “Given how devoted you are.”

“I am devoted. Yeah.” Alfred nodded, but wariness made him falter. “And I… What exactly do you mean, ‘consider all my options?’”

Ivan’s eyes widened into the perfect picture of innocence. His voice turned soft, so Alfred leaned in despite himself. He didn’t notice if their knees touched. “Don’t you know the most effective method of controlling a werewolf?”

Alfred winced. “Arthur says I shouldn’t call myself that.”

“It’s what you are,” Ivan said, flat. His smile quirked again. “It is no good, being ashamed. Guilt will not change what happens when the moon is full. Hypnotism, though…” Ivan shrugged, made an open gesture with his hands. “That is beneficial, in my experience.”

“Oh.” Alfred picked at a scab on his elbow, thoughtful. “So, just, how much experience do you have, brainwashing people?”

Another deep chuckle flavored the air. “Hypnotism is a legitimate form of psychological treatment. It is not like what you see in movies. It requires training and, more importantly, a willing participant. So?”

Alfred startled when the edge of Ivan’s glove grazed his wrist. He watched that hand, huge, steady, inviting, and uncertainty rushed him. “Uh… No.”

“No?” Ivan’s smile turned to stone. He didn’t move, except for his eyes, which picked Alfred apart.

“No thanks. Not…the biggest fan of people picking my brain, let alone _controlling_ it.” His eyes flicked up to Ivan’s and he frowned. “Look, sorry if I disappointed you. It’s just…I’d rather keep talking. That was helping, I think.”

“There is no disappointment.” Ivan sat back and Alfred was starting to understand what was wrong with his smile—It didn’t reach his eyes. Not at all. “We are here to find the treatment that fits best for you. My suggestion is just something to keep in mind.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thank you.” Alfred folded his hands between his knees. His focus fell to a panel of wooden flooring that was lighter than the rest. Absently, he said, “What should I talk about next?”

“You mentioned a stepbrother. I think he is an important player in your story, no? Tell me about him.”

Alfred’s breath shook on an inhale. He tried for another smile, but it withered before it could bloom. “After the divorce, we moved. I think we were…fourteen at the time? Fifteen? Mattie and me. We wound up here in Seattle. Mom met this guy from Britain. Some kind of scientist. We stopped going to church. That was weird. But science dude had a son. Arthur. He’s a few years older than me and he actually knows a lot about my, uh, condition. When he moved out to go to medical school, he brought me with him. He saw how hard shit was for me, so he set up, like, a containment room? In his basement. It’s supposed to keep me secure during full moons, but…”

“It didn’t work.”

“No.” Alfred cast his gaze downward. He picked at his fingernail so fresh blood mingled with the old. “I busted out and… Art went to the hospital. Ha… I visited, before my appointment today. He says it’s not a problem. ‘Good practice for when he ends up working at one.’ I could tell he was in pain, though. I…I only remember flashes. I don’t even know what I did to him.”

“That is troubling.”

“No kidding.” Alfred narrowed his eyes on the man before him. That pale face was impassive, his gaze indecipherable. “What are you thinking right now?”

“I am wondering what you do remember. Why don’t you try to walk me through it?”

Alfred sucked down a breath. He bundled his knees under his chin and thought, hard. Somewhere behind him, a clock ticked away. “…It’s spotty. I remember seeing debris everywhere. Bits of wall, like I just…crashed right through it or something. There was this _scent_. I don’t know how else to explain it. I can’t even describe what it smelled like now. I don’t know… Um, Arthur was… I remember his face. I remember him trying to calm me down, and when that didn’t work…” He snorted a laugh, licked his lips. “I think he hit me with something? Whatever he did, it really pissed me off and I… I…” Alfred shrugged. Laughed again. “There were these lights… Red and white. I woke up somewhere else. I don’t…” He sighed and shrugged once more, helpless. “I don’t know.”

“I see,” Ivan mused. He sipped his water, and Alfred was floored by his nonchalance. He sat forward.

“Aren’t you… Doesn’t that scare you? I hurt people. I maybe even k…killed people. That doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Alfred hesitated. “Okay.”

They sat in silence while Ivan finished his drink. Alfred squinted at his throat. It worked soundlessly beneath the fabric of his scarf. Alfred thought he saw something, a jagged white line that curved under his jaw when he swallowed, but then he blinked and it was hidden once more. When he was finished, he set the glass aside with a musical _clink_. Then, a thunderous clap split the air and Alfred jumped.

“Well! That concludes today’s session, no? Let me give you my card so you know the most direct way to contact me.” Ivan stood. Alfred watched him, incredulous.

“Wait—Really?” Alfred swiveled in his chair as Ivan made his way back to his desk. The doctor searched before retrieving a little white card. He offered it out. Alfred made no move to accept. “Wait, you can’t be serious. I… I don’t feel any better. I can’t just go home and… Aren’t we supposed to figure this out, so it doesn’t happen again?”

Ivan’s eyes grew in such bewilderment that Alfred was starting to doubt the sincerity of it. “You’ve said all there is to say, haven’t you?” Ivan gestured to his card. “You don’t remember anything else about your last episode, so I do not see this conversation progressing much further. I will meet with you next month, when you can share more piecemeal memories about your latest incident.”

“That’s…” Alfred took the card in a daze, “pretty unsatisfying. You said you’re a doctor?”

Without looking up from his card—The plainly typed _Braginsky, Ph.D._ and phone number—Alfred could tell Ivan was smiling again. “I am. I specialize in talking therapy, which you seem fond of. Of course, there are other options available, but I do not want to overwhelm you during your first visit. You’ve already declined one possibility. We will pick up with more ideas next time, yes?”

Ivan’s smile slipped as he began organizing his files. He stacked a pile of paper on his desk, adjusted his paperweight further away from the edge, and poured himself a fresh glass of water. There was an air of finality to his actions. It made Alfred feel sick.

“Wait…” His voice sounded weak. It trembled at the end, so he cleared his throat and repeated himself more firmly. “Wait.”

Ivan turned to him with the same patient curiosity he’d assumed earlier. “Yes, Alfred?”

“This…hypnosis thing.” He watched his hands instead of his doctor. Each time he looked, there seemed to be even more dirt creasing his knuckles, more blood staining him down to his bones. He felt Ivan’s eyes on him and swallowed deep. “You said, uh… You said it’ll help control this thing?”

A minute passed. From the corner of his eye, Alfred saw the tails of Ivan’s scarf. The other man didn’t move, and Alfred forced himself to imitate that stillness—Besides his shivering. He couldn’t suppress that.

At last, gloved fingers braced around Alfred’s chin. They guided his head upwards, until he was forced to meet that glassy violet gaze. Ivan studied him for an interval of seconds: He, pensive and calm, and Alfred, brimming with some caustic energy. Alfred thought of a wild bear advancing on an injured eagle. He would have given anything to fly away.

“Relax.” Ivan knelt, releasing Alfred’s jaw. Their noses were mere centimeters apart. Alfred felt cool breath on his cheek. “Focus on me. Try to match my breathing. In… And out… Watch my chest. In…”

Alfred’s breath hitched on the first attempt. He expelled it and tried again. His eyes jumped between Ivan’s own before settling on a fringe of pale hair. He inhaled, slowly, and let it out just the same.

“Good. That’s very good, Alfred…” The husky thrum of Ivan’s voice was, itself, hypnotic. There was a natural cadence to his words that lulled Alfred into a state of security. “I want you to listen to my voice. Clear your mind of everything else. Let my words flow through one ear…and out the other. It is like the tide, swelling and ebbing on the sand.”

Light refracted in Ivan’s eyes. Alfred felt drawn to them. His brows knotted up high on his forehead as a low sound escaped him. “I… Is this it?” he whispered, so as not to break the spell. Even so, “This feels dumb.”

A deep chuckle stirred the air. Ivan sat back on his heels. His expression stilled, like that of a marble statue. Then, with one sharp syllable, he said, “ _Sleep._ ”

And Alfred plummeted into shadow.

The room he woke up in was no brighter. A grey haze clung to the corners, pooling around his ankles. He didn’t remember getting up, but there he stood, hunched on the balls of his feet. He moved to adjust his glasses and noticed two things: First, the spectacles were missing, and yet, he could see _perfectly_. Sure, the colors were a bit distorted, and shapes blurred around the edges, but Alfred didn’t need to rely on his eyes to capture his surroundings; he could also smell, and hear, and _feel_ his way with some unnatural intuition.

Secondly…Alfred’s hand hovered, frozen, in the space before him. His fingers twisted into strange black claws. Every tendon twitched and strained beneath a coarse layer of blonde. A low stutter built in his throat. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, who was listening, but he opened his mouth and—

Alfred _howled_.

His heart lurched. No. _No_. This couldn’t be…unless he was dreaming. Was he dreaming? He wrenched his head to and fro. Concrete walls caged him in on all sides. A whine peeled off his lips. He was trapped. _Trapped_. And he had to find Artie, had to warn him.

Alfred’s arm jerked. Chains shrieked in reply. Panic fluttered in his chest. He yanked again and, this time, bits of concrete crumbled to the floor. He recognized that cement, scraping the undersides of his feet. He was in Arthur’s basement.

He _really_ had to warn him.

A few more frenzied tugs and Alfred heard something splinter. It was either the chain binding him to the wall or part the wall itself. He didn’t care which. Lurching strides brought him to a heavy wooden door. Arthur had reinforced it with steel bands. Alfred snapped them like they were rubber. The door frame shattered, and Alfred bowled through, unaware that he was snarling. He cut himself off, drew up tall, and sniffed the air around him. Burning food mixed with some synthetic odor. ‘Rainwater,’ Alfred guessed the scent was called, or maybe ‘Fresh Springs.’ He followed the thread of aroma upstairs.

The back of a leather jacket stopped him in his tracks. Arthur was in the kitchen, beating back a plume of smoke with his oven mitt. He muttered a curse before wrenching open a window. He whirled, smoothing out his apron, and caught Alfred’s eye. His expression fell.

“…Alfred.”

Alfred stared. He swore he could _feel_ his pupils dilating. Saliva flooded his tongue and he sucked it back with an audible gulp. A low growl followed. Arthur stiffened. Then, they both sprung to action.

Suddenly, Alfred was on all fours, bounding across pristine white tile. Another howl escaped. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but words evaded him. Arthur whirled. He snatched a frying pan off the stovetop. It was still smoking from its blackened contents. Alfred couldn’t tell, even by scent, what it was supposed to be. But he smelled something else, bitter and sharp. _Fear_. Underneath that, a less familiar fragrance lurked. He paused, nose twitching, until it finally clicked. Arthur smelled like cigarettes and…and something else. Frost, maybe. Except, Arthur never smoked and why would he smell so much like winter—?

“ _Very good, Alfred._ ” Arthur gazed at him with serious green eyes. But the voice he used was not his own. Harsh consonants replaced his usual lilting accent. All at once, Alfred understood. Ivan was speaking to him, from wherever he was. “ _What happens now?_ ”

Alfred stood still. For a long stretch of seconds, he and Arthur gaped at one another. Both were tense, both waiting for the other to act. _What happens now?_ Alfred thought, and then lunged.

Iron cracked against his jaw. Agony ruptured in his bones. Alfred yowled and reeled backwards. Arthur brandished the pan at him with a curse. Slowly, cautiously, Arthur backed toward the exit. Alfred sensed his movements than anything. White flashes of pain blinded him, so he relied on his other methods of sight.

“Bloody…” Arthur breathed. This time, his voice belonged to him. He cleared his throat and, though his words remained hushed, Alfred knew they were meant for him. “Come now, poppet. Easy. Did you get lonely in your room? That’s alright. You don’t have to go back down there. We can stay right here. Understand? Just behave for me. Just be good.”

Alfred didn’t realize he was growling until Arthur’s coaxing stopped. He edged forward. Drool oozed between his teeth. He tasted it, rich with the flavor of blood. _His_ blood. Because Arthur had hit him—He’d _hit_ him—and now, it didn’t matter how friendly his stepbrother was acting, because his hands were twisting on the handle of his pan, and he was gearing up for another swing, and he was an _enemy_.

Gnarled claws slashed through fabric. Through flesh. Blood splattered the floor. This time, it was not Alfred’s. Arthur cupped his cheek and staggered back. His expression hovered between shock and meditation. The pain, he must have been stowing away for later. He swayed on his feet.

“Oh, good.” Arthur blinked blood out of his eye. A dark stain spread from four long gashes on his chest. Arthur examined them briefly. His face went pale, even as his eyes turned dark. “Alfred… Believe me when I say, I _truly_ did not want to have to beat your ass tonight.”

Arthur’s next blow caught Alfred’s temple. His head whipped sideways. Another strike split his cheekbone. He thrashed violently, scrambling back all the while. He paused when he stood a yard away.

“ _Well?_ ” Ivan’s voice trickled past Arthur’s lips. “ _Do what dogs do._ ”

Alfred reared back. The tips of his ears grazed the stationary ceiling fan. He locked onto his prey. No. On _Arthur_. Then, Alfred did what dogs do. He gave chase.

Arthur threw his weapon and bolted outside. In hindsight, Alfred realized why: Arthur’s shed was his laboratory. He often brought Alfred out there to run tests and sample strange-tasting liquids. Now, Alfred didn’t care where they were heading as long as he _caught up_. Cool night air whipped through his fur. The moon shined a greeting, and Alfred howled in response.

Arthur got to the shed first. A freshly painted door slammed in Alfred’s face. Frenzied snarls and growls frothed from his mouth. He threw his weight against the wood, gnashing his teeth at its frame. Hinges screamed, then busted, and he barged inside.

“Dear god,” Arthur hissed. A medical cabinet was thrown open. Various pill bottles and medical supplies lay strewn across the floor. Rubbing alcohol splashed against concrete. A roll of bandages trailed into a wash basin, all covered in red fingerprints. Alfred saw a container of multivitamins spilled over a table. He hated those things. Arthur was always making him take them with his morning tea when Alfred really just preferred a _coke_ and—Before the thought finished crossing his mind, Arthur jumped him.

“Listen, Alfred, I’ve been through too many of your temper tantrums to find this intimidating. Now why don’t you just _relax?_ ”

Something pierced Alfred’s skin. He howled. His body wrenched this way and that, furious in its attempts to dislodge his assailant. Arthur grunted as he was thrown into the wall. His head cracked a window. Blood smeared over sterile surfaces, white walls, but Arthur didn’t let go. A syringe clattered to the floor. Alfred felt it crunch underfoot and howled again when the shards bit him.

“For the love of the devil,” Arthur groaned. His voice was thick with something. Maybe blood. There was enough of it flavoring the air, after all. “Just this _once_ do you think you could—”

Arthur choked as Alfred wrenched his head back. Jagged claws snared in Arthur’s hair, which was sticky and matted with sweat or blood or both. Then, with one bodily thrust, Alfred hauled Arthur off his shoulders. The older boy crumpled. He twitched, like a crushed insect, and went still. Alfred took a lurching step—And careened sideways when his vision blurred.

Fur bristled on the back of Alfred’s neck. He tried to walk again. Stumbled. His eyes rolled back in his head, only for a moment, and his legs went fluid beneath him. Suddenly, he buckled to his knees. A low whine peeled from his lips.

Arthur’s groan cut through Alfred’s daze. Suddenly, it made sense: Arthur had poisoned him. Or—No. Something was sapping Alfred’s strength, turning his bones to lead and dulling his senses. But it wasn’t poison that sullied his veins; he hadn’t understood that in the moment, but now, it became clear. Arthur shot him full of _tranquilizer_.

Rage flared. His lips curled over a razor-sharp snarl. He saw Arthur’s hand twitch, watched his mouth flicker into a grimace. He wanted to _smash_ that expression. He grabbed the back of his stepbrother’s head and slammed it into a wooden beam. Again, and again, and again, he did it. He heard a sound like ice cracking over wet cement. _Quite an undignified way to go,_ he could almost imagine Arthur saying. Except, Arthur wouldn’t be speaking again. Not for some time.

Alfred’s vision swam until he could only make out the colors: Brown, and blonde, and a red that was too dark, too abundant. That sack of cloth and flesh that he held felt heavy and limp now. Alfred’s howl cut the night. He dropped his prey. His fangs flashed by the light of the moon. And then—Then—

“I _can’t!_ ” Alfred bolted upright. Cold sweat plastered hair to his forehead. His shoulders heaved on frenzied pants and he still couldn’t _see_ and, oh, it was okay though, because someone settled his glasses on his nose, and everything became clear, and there wasn’t even any blood.

“Breathe. Alfred. Listen to me.”

Strong hands bruised Alfred’s shoulders. His head twisted this way and that. He realized he was muttering to himself, breathless, a string of apologies and frets. And he had to find Arthur. He had to—

“Alfred. _Look at me._ ”

Alfred’s eyelids flickered. His chest shuddered on a long inhale. A face blurred into focus. _Arthur_ , he thought at first, but then, “Oh… Hey, doc. I-I’m sorry, I think I’ll pass on the rest of this hypnosis stuff for now. I…”

Ivan shook him, hard. Alfred’s mouth parted on a half-formed question. Then he noticed it: The icy blaze in Ivan’s eyes. He was _angry_. That sudden, unexplained fury startled Alfred into momentary silence. His jaw trembled.

“…Doc?” Alfred tried. “I didn’t mean… Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

Ivan’s lips twitched, then curled into a sneer. His eyes kept burning, in the way that only something truly cold can burn. “Don’t you want to know what happened, so it does not repeat itself?”

“No,” Alfred blurted. His voice sounded strained and he laughed to clear it. “No, I’m… Maybe it’s a blessing that I can’t remember shit after a full moon. It’s gotta be that way for a reason, right?”

“ _Coward_.” Ivan’s thumbs ground into his biceps, so sudden and sharp that Alfred yelped. “Ignorance is a selfish luxury.”

“I’m not going back! That was one of the worst nights of my life and I’m not living through it again. You can’t make me. I _won’t_.”

“I am your doctor. This is the medicine I prescribed, so _take it_.”

“This isn’t helping—

“Neither is running from all the carnage you caused and playing make believe—”

“ _I remember_ what happened!” Alfred’s voice cracked. He drew his knees up under his chin and glared overtop his glasses. The corners of his mouth tightened in thought. “I remember. Okay? I remember everything from last night. I wish I didn’t. But now I do.”

Ivan appeared satisfied with that. He settled back in his chair, tugged down the sleeve of his jacket, and gestured to Alfred. “Continue.”

He took a deep breath and averted his gaze. “I tore into him.”

“Arthur,” Ivan verified.

“ _Yes_ , Arthur.” Alfred’s eyes flicked back up, bright with anger: At Ivan, at Arthur, at himself. “I just kept fucking whaling on him until the sedatives kicked in. I tasted his, his blood when I woke up. I don’t even… I don’t even know how bad the damage was by the end of it, because there was too much…” Alfred swallowed a gag. “Too much blood, and when I visited the hospital, he was all covered up with blankets and gauze.” A hitched laugh. “I broke his nose. I know that. His cheekbone too. He has a split in one of his eyebrows and I think it looks kind of cool, but I know it’s gonna scar and it’ll just be this constant, _constant_ reminder of…”

Alfred trailed off. Ivan waited a few, dragging seconds. Then, he shifted forward. “Let us move on to the next phase, shall we?”

Alfred tensed. “No, no, I told you, I’m done, I…”

“Of course. I forget, you prefer to transfer the blame elsewhere. It is so much simpler that way, isn’t it? If it ‘isn’t your fault,’ you never have to correct yourself.”

“What do you want from me?” Alfred leaned forward. “It’s _not_ my fault. Okay? Matt says so. Even Arthur. I can’t control it. _What_ are you laughing for?”

“Can’t control it…” Ivan hummed, almost musically, and shook his head at the ceiling. “Keep on lying to yourself.”

“You’re telling me that going back through some of my worst memories is somehow gonna help me not…do werewolf shit when the moon comes up? Yeah, this seems so legit. You know, you’re probably the least professional doctor I’ve ever seen. Like, even worse than the ones from _movies_. There’s some crazy dudes in movies and you’re really topping the charts—”

“Trust.” Ivan sat forward suddenly and clasped Alfred’s forearm. “Trust me, Alfred. This part will be easier.”

Alfred looked from Ivan’s hand, to the scarf knotted at his throat, to the hungry glow of that lavender gaze. He almost recoiled, but Ivan pulled him back. He grimaced. “I don’t need the easy way out.”

“I did not say it will be easy.” Ivan’s voice was as hard as the edges of his smile. “I said it will be _easier_ , comparatively. But I think the best way to learn that is to experience it yourself.”

Alfred cut his eyes back to Ivan’s hand, still braced around his wrist, and laughed. “I sure am letting you talk me into a lot of shit today.”

“That much is not your fault. I can be very persuasive.” Ivan squeezed. “Even more so when my pipe is with me.”

“Yeah…” Alfred said absently. He snapped back to attention once he realized what was said. “Wait, your—What?”

“Another joke, Alfred.” Ivan’s eyes glittered with his amusement. “Now, are you ready to work with me?”

Alfred took a long, slow breath. “What’s next?”

Ivan didn’t say anything. That was alright; any words would have disrupted the stillness of his smile. Silent, the doctor leaned forward and pulled Alfred to meet him. Alfred startled, then Ivan squeezed his arm again, and he forced his muscles to relax in that hold. Their eyes locked. Ivan’s gaze was mild, mysterious. Alfred failed to match that coolness. He decided to mimic Ivan’s breathing instead. For a long time, there was only the soft rustle of their breath, the rhythmic call of the clock, and the sensation of frost spilling over Alfred’s skin.

_It is a full moon. You can see that round, luminescent face watching over you; she is omnipresent, painting your whole world silver._ _Look up, Alfred, and see how the moon glows for you._

Alfred raised his eyes. The narration was coming from Ivan, only, his lips weren’t moving. Ivan’s head was still bowed, his eyes still closed, and his face overtaken by tranquility. Alfred slipped out of his seat, away from him. He felt lighter somehow, and when he looked to his left, he understood why. He’d left his body behind.

_You are not alone for this part. I am here. I will guide you. Ultimately, though, the work you do must be your own. Now, Alfred, the moon is calling you. You will answer._

Alfred took one last look at his physical form. Moonlight turned his hair the color of ash and shimmered on the glasses threatening to slide off his nose. His forehead tilted against Ivan’s. Their arms were caught in some strange embrace. The two of them appeared motionless, like a statue, chiseled into one coherent piece. Alfred blinked, then drifted toward the window. His consciousness floated between emotions he couldn’t quite latch onto. He felt like a ghost.

_Your spirit has not connected to the wolf inside you. Right now, the two halves of your soul are divided. They are locked in conflict with one another. Last night, the wolf won. It always will, when the moon turns full._

The window curtains rustled when Alfred drew near. He slipped between them and tilted his face to the sky. There were no clouds, only the pearlescent surface of a very close, very full moon. Normally, that image would imbue Alfred with mounting terror or frenzy. Now, he felt nothing but peace.

_There is your wolf, sprawling like a wraith under the stars. Its hair looks platinum by night, but you know it to be as golden as your own. Its eyes are blue as a storm, and hungry for victory. Tell me, how can you reframe the wolf’s triumph? How can you share its success, so you both win every time?_

Alfred’s gaze flickered to the ground. A wolf gazed back at him with its head cocked, curious. Alfred mirrored the gesture. What he saw now was no grotesque hybrid of wolf and man. It was only the wolf. Alfred was only the man. They were separate entities, with separate goals. The only way to share those goals was, well…

_You and the wolf must become one._

Alfred didn’t tear his gaze from the wolf’s, nor did he understand the solution. He and the wolf _had_ become one. They became one every time a full moon rose, and it only ever ended in disaster.

_How can you expect a seamless union between bodies when your spirits are still at odds? The marriage of two beings goes deeper than mere physicality. You have left your body behind for a purpose. Focus on your essence._

Alfred stepped forward. All at once, he was suspended in the nighttime air. He didn’t need to look back to know Ivan was gone. His office was gone. Everything, everything was gone, except the wolf, lounging on the other end of a starlit abyss, and the moon, passing judgement on them both.

Alfred didn’t talk. The wolf wouldn’t have listened even if he had. He imagined his situation was like that of an elderly couple who had fallen out of love but didn’t believe in divorce: They’d shared the same space for as long as either of them could remember, but neither one knew how to communicate effectively. And their fights kept getting worse. The most recent one nearly resulted in death.

“You almost killed Arthur.” Alfred jammed an accusatory finger at the beast, who slinked back a few paces and growled. Then, Alfred spotted the dirt beneath his fingernail. His stance faltered. He squeezed his eyes shut as understanding washed over him. It wasn’t the wolf who’d harmed his stepbrother. It was _both_ of them.

He stood there a long while, waiting for something in the dark. Silence stretched on until Alfred realized he was awaiting further guidance from Ivan. None came. The wolf’s presence was the only one he felt. It was a hostile energy but, beneath that, Alfred sensed a tinge of—hurt.

Alfred edged forward on cautious steps. The wolf bared its teeth but did not retreat. When Alfred got close enough, he paused while the canine sniffed the air. A low growl built in its throat and then quieted. It lowered its muzzle between its paws. Alfred pressed onward.

He stopped again when he and his wolf stood a yard apart. From this close, Alfred could see their breath, misting into a single thread of air. The wolf’s ears flattened against its head, but it did not move, even when Alfred knelt down. He felt no fear, no inhibition, and somehow, he knew his wolf felt the same. He reached out a hand…

…And felt Ivan’s cheek, cold against his palm. His fingers curled as he blinked his way back to reality. Night’s veil fell away, revealing sturdy leather chairs, a paperweight carved like a bear, and a painted portrait of snow. He surveyed his surroundings for a long moment before he realized he hadn’t moved his hand. He jerked it into his lap.

“Uh…” Blue eyes caught on violet as serenity gave way to confusion. “I think I lost it.”

The remnants of a smile colored Ivan’s lips. He didn’t move to put space between them, and neither did Alfred. “You did well. You will accomplish your task sooner than I anticipated, I think.”

“But I lost it. I didn’t connect with the wolf. I should try again, right?”

“Wrong.” Ivan wove his hands underneath his own chin. His head cocked to the side and, just when Alfred thought he might have seen that gesture before, Ivan said, “You cannot spend all of your energy in one session. If you exhaust your spirit before you return to your body, it will only make it easier for the wolf to possess you instead. That is the opposite of what we want, no?”

“Oh…”

Ivan sat back and reached for a clipboard. “We are going to schedule your second appointment for this time next week. Until then, you will practice meditation and mastery of two things: Harmony and control. Do you understand?”

“Sounds like hippie shit,” Alfred said with a tentative smile.

Ivan looked at him. One corner of his mouth twitched higher than the other, until he wore a crooked, dimpled grin. Alfred decided, of all the expressions he’d seen on this man, he liked this one best. “It is absolute ‘hippie shit,’” he agreed.

“Yeah…” Alfred watched Ivan scribble something down, and then kept watching until he glimpsed his own reflection in the window, realized he was still smiling, and flushed. He wore the weight of his physical form awkwardly after his walk in the spirit realm and bumped into a table on his way out of his chair. “I guess that’s it until next week—Er, did you mean to say next month? Before, you said you’d see me again next month.”

Ivan stood and turned a raised brow on Alfred. “I think we would both benefit from an earlier meeting after all. Don’t you?”

“Oh.” Alfred choked on the smile that blossomed next. “Oh! Yeah. For sure. Hey, I appreciate it, Doc—Er, Ivan. Thanks, seriously.” He lingered there, looking up at those broad and aquiline features. Wait, no, he was _gazing_ , and—“Shit. I told Arthur I’d visit him after my appointment. And Matt’s probably waiting outside. I should…” He ambled toward the door, then stopped and glanced back. “I meant what I said. You know that?”

“When you thanked me?” Ivan asked from behind his desk. He stood against that backdrop of painted snow with skin just as pale as the weather. And, as Alfred discovered, just as cold.

“When I called you unprofessional.” Alfred beamed. “You’re not like any doctor I’ve ever heard of.”

Ivan snorted. “There are a few doctors who would say you’re not a typical client either.” He arched a brow. “I know what a little wolf needs. You will be grateful.”

And there, something about the way he said that in the low, confident timbre of his voice… Alfred shivered. “I am. Grateful, I mean. Maybe not a typical client. I admit, I was a little skeptical about you because what does a _human_ know about werewolfism anyway, right? And now… Well, I guess I’m _double_ skeptical because you’re all up in my mind and shit, but I also feel like this might work? If I can figure out how to—”

“Go to your stepbrother, Alfred.” Ivan was smiling again, that lopsided, genuine smile. Alfred took a mental snapshot and teetered in the doorway before nodding.

“Yeah. Right. Have a good one, Ivan.”

“Likewise.”

“I’ll see you next week.”

“Get out of here.”

That time, Alfred went. Ivan watched until that flash of blonde vanished, and chuckled as he shut the door. Alfred F. Jones was a young pup, naïve, but—Unlike most of the other wolves Ivan encountered—he had _potential_. If a boy that strong, that determined, learned to control his gift, he would be damn near unstoppable: A pack leader, unless another Alpha bent him first. Yes, Ivan saw promise in this case.

Ivan’s chair groaned when he settled into it. His temple touched the window behind him, and he sighed at the warmth seeping through the glass. The recent memory of skin just as hot flashed into his mind. He muzzled his thoughts and cracked open the window instead. A cigarette found its way between his lips. He ignited it with a cheap lighter he kept inside his desk. Smoke curled into the city sky, mingling with the clamor of a mealtime rush. Vaguely, he wondered if his client was on his way to secure a Big Mac after all.

Sighing, he worked to unravel his scarf. Long chords of raised scar tissue scored his flesh. He glanced at his reflection in the window. The old wounds glistened like war trophies in the afternoon sun. Only, Ivan didn’t feel proud of them. Those were not fights he had won. He hadn’t possessed as much self-control back then. He clicked his tongue and shrugged the scarf away. He never would have let them get to his neck nowadays. In fact, he’d almost like to see someone _try._

Finally, Ivan clicked open his pocketknife. A ripple of sunlight tore down the blade. Then, he flicked his gloves onto his desk and began cleaning the dirt from under his nails. It was the first thing he’d taught himself to look out for the day after a full moon. He whittled away with a practiced hand. A thin red crust fluttered onto his desk. Ivan paused. Leaned forward.

_Fuck._

“It is a full moon.” Ivan closed his eyes. “You can see that round, luminescent face watching over you.” His cigarette hissed against the underside of his desk as he extinguished it with trembling fingers. “She is omnipresent, painting your whole world silver…”


End file.
